


the ghost of us will linger here

by transvav



Category: Mianite (Minecraft Series), Mianitian Isles, Minecraft (Video Game), Realm of Mianite - Fandom
Genre: (can be seen as romantic), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Conditional immortality, Dehydration and Starvation, Gen, Mental Torture, Mind Manipulation, Physical Torture, Platonic Relationships, and then try to put him back together again, basically i put jordan through hell, emotional torture, vav kills topaz hours lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:13:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transvav/pseuds/transvav
Summary: they're trapped in the mirror realm. the portal is closing, the world is going to pieces around him. jordan misses his opportunity, and ianite cannot get him out.(or,  what happens when your bond is frayed, and you can't escape)
Relationships: Jordan Maron & Declan Pitts, Jordan Maron & Karl H, Jordan Maron & Lady Ianite, Jordan Maron & Lord Dianite, Jordan Maron & Tom Cassell
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93





	the ghost of us will linger here

**Author's Note:**

> remember that cool fun thing that happened in episode 53 where jordan fucked up and died in the mirror realm and ended up back in the prison, and had to be teleported out by ianite?
> 
> yeah what if she couldn't get to him in time.

he's caught off guard- disoriented, lost, and overwhelmed. he notices they're in the wrong dimension first, but by the time he finds the portal it's too late.

the magic shatters, and an explosion knocks him to the ground. ianite's connection to him, unsteady and weak already, surges for the briefest of moments as she screams for him in his mind- and then she is gone, and he sees or hears nothing more.

* * *

it has been a long time since ruxomar, he thinks. but there are shadows of the past that never truly leave you, memories that haunt your waking moments when you are at your lowest points.

one of those is andor, when they'd found him in inertia, cold and broken, eyes empty, shaken, afraid, and so terribly wounded it had made jordan nearly forget himself to rage. it was for andor's sake that he had been able to keep a steady head. to help the boy escape. to help him to where he may have been able to begin to heal.

jordan wonders, as he tears his coat apart to wrap the freshest wounds, if anyone will even be able to do the same for him.

it has been a full day. he thinks. he's learned to have an internal clock of his own, after what he has lived through, after years of being alone. there is no redstone ticking, no golden circles on the wall, no sunlight, no windows, nothing that reassures him.

it has only been a day, hasn't it?

there's a poison in his veins, a steady, uncomfortable thrum of the alternate realm. he always gets like this in other realms- the nether is the worst. the overworld, manageable. the end is the only safety he has.

this is not the end. this is the beginning. the inbetween. the void, traversable. the shadows expanded.

was it mianite that had tortured andor, or was it world historian?

does it matter? did it ever?

the agent comes by later with the barest hint of bread, and a bottle with a potion. he knows that potion. there's a copy of it in one of the boxes in his chest. he knows that potion. he's not that desperate. he goes without drink, and falls asleep with his mouth dry, and his wounds stinging, shaking in the bed against the rough wool blanket. it isn't warm enough, but he takes what he can get.

the next morning he is woken up by frozen liquid that isn’t _water_ , but it’s a close approximation. it makes his face numb and his muscles weak, and the agent finds a twisted delight in forcing him below the surface until he’s forced to try to breathe. it’s not the darkness potion, he knows- it’s not poison, either. just _pure_ potion of harming- he’s never tasted it before, and it provides _no_ hydration, scarring his mouth and throat and leaving it drier than before. he coughs uselessly when they eventually dump him back to the cold floor of the cell, gasping for breath, doing his best to muster up any saliva, any moisture in the air.

that night, he’s offered bread, and the potion. he eats the bread and kicks the potion as far away from him as he can, pushing himself up against the wall and wrapping himself in the blankets, despite how they rub against his festering wounds, reopened after rough treatment and exposed after the dunks into the potion. there’s no energy left in him, and his mouth feels like he’s swallowed sand, but he keeps his head as high as he can.

someone is walked past his cell, swarmed by guards, the clank of the shackles making his ears ring. the presence makes him shiver- it’s never been his to really understand, or feel, but jordan has felt it before. he’s been in the favor of this god, before, has felt him reach out and try to pull him in to his company, into his care.

dianite’s still here.

the god must feel him too- for a brief second, the guards part, and the two of their eyes meet‒ bright, crimson red against dull, dark blue. dianite’s eyes widen in shock, and he jerks to a stop. all the guards stop around him, too, and stare him down. he must have promised to go willingly, jordan thinks through his exhaustion, blinking slow. vaguely, he wonders why they haven’t taken his glasses yet- the lens in one has already shattered, the other cracked, the world an already hazy, broken, dim mess.

“why is he here?” dianite growls, flashing his fangs, and jordan feels his breath catch in his throat. this dianite looks so _normal_. so different. he likes it, he thinks. it’s a nice change from what he remembers, a kinder face than he likes to remember. “you said they would have a chance to _escape_.”

“they did get a chance,” the agent of darkness says- jordan realizes he must be just out of sight, past the cell door’s view. “he didn’t make it.”

“...this is why i’m being freed,” the god says in realization. he hasn’t broken eye contact with jordan yet. jordan finds that nice, for some reason. “you have _him_.”

what an odd trade, jordan thinks. he’s not as important as a god. what a silly thing for the darkness to agree upon.

“a soul for a soul, dianite,” the agent says, with a grin jordan can _hear_. he goes on to say something about _sway_ , and _mortality_ , but jordan can feel himself fading in and out of the pull of sleep. he thinks maybe he should be more worried. but- he’s _hurt_. and tired.

dianite tries to say something to him, through a mental link jordan didn’t know they had, but he succumbs to the exhaustion before it really makes any sense. the last thing he remembers is a flash of fire, and dianite’s face, outraged and _desperate_ , his mouth forming the word _captain_ , and the guards swarming closer towards the god.

* * *

he wakes up with his arms strapped to a table. he’s on his stomach. his nose is bleeding, his wrists, at the shackles, are bleeding, there’s blood in his mouth. the agent sinks to his level in front of him. his eyes are empty when their gazes meet, no light left in the empty void. jordan wonders how he sees. the agent grins, wide and sharp.

“you’ll break soon,” he says with confidence. “if not through the torture, then through the lack of essentials.”

jordan’s mouth is dry. his skin is dry. he can’t catch his breath, and his vision keeps blurring. his heart feels heavy in his chest, thumping like feet against cobble running _too fast, too fast, too fast._ the room is spinning. it won’t stop spinning. it just keeps spinning. he wants to close his eyes.

“mortals are so fragile,” the agent laughs, and stands up in front of him. “three days without any type of liquid, and you just... crumble. you _shatter_. like sand, like glass.”

something sharp drags along his shoulder blade and he makes a low, keening moan of pain when he feels warmth bubble up to the surface of his skin. the knife is rusted, the cut, untreated. the wound will infect. it’s what they’re counting on. it’s what they want. the more it hurts, the more he needs that potion. the longer he goes without drinking, the _more he needs the potion_. he is going to die here. he is going to die here. he is going to die here‒

and nobody bothered to come.

do they hate him? did they forget? did dianite get out and simply not bother to tell them he was trapped, he was tortured, he was _alone_ \- well, that wasn’t new. he was always alone. he started alone, he was a champion alone, he watched her _die, alone_ , he woke up _alone_ in the cell, alone in the halls, in the vents, in the tower in that darkness realm. alone, alone, alone, for the rest of his life, as short as it would be.

“oh, come now, captain,” the agent says, and draws another stinging line across the other shoulder blade. “if i could, i’d connect the elytra to your nerves, here. there’s a _way_ , you know, to get them to stay. to get you to use them as naturally as the dragon does. wouldn’t that be _wonderful_ , captain? i think you’d quite like it. you know how we could make it so. it’s not so hard.”

jordan makes a negative grunt of pain, and the agent sighs, pouring another bottle of harming potion over the fresh wounds and making jordan twist against the steel restraints further, keening and desperate to hold back a sob (not like it matters- he can feel the tears on his cheeks anyways, but he’s mostly so check out of his body it doesn’t-).

 _captain_.

jordan’s breath hitches in his throat. another cut with the knife. there’s no- shouldn’t he be gone?

 _they lied about that,_ dianite whispers to him, amusement barely coloring his tone. the god sounds tired, drained. _i’m straining to even reach you‒ we barely have a connection as it is. it’s hard when you’re far from me. harder still because we’re in another dimension entirely._

jordan makes a low noise in his throat. his vision is blurring again, and the voice in his head is giving him another migraine.

 _don’t worry, i won’t be here long,_ dianite says, and a spike of panic runs through jordan. _no- i’m sorry. i meant i wouldn’t bother you too much. i know it hurts. i just need to tell you- they **are** coming, captain. hold out hope. do not drink what they give you._

jordan grits his teeth and fights the dizzy spell to try to reply. _i’m- i’m going to die-_

 _ **do not die, captain**_ , the fledgling god of chaos orders, and jordan feels his entire body seize for just a moment as the power of a deity overrides his entire system for the briefest of moments. some of- everything- fades, and jordan realizes blearily that dianite has just _forced_ his body to continue surviving. it won’t last long, he knows, but‒ why, he wonders. why should dianite care about him.

the agent seems to notice the sudden jolt of movement and sighs. there’s a clatter of metal on metal and he comes around, tilting jordan’s chip upwards and meeting his eyes. he huffs in anger and drops jordan’s chin, instead wiping the blood from his fingertips in jordan’s hair, and turns.

“we really should have taken dianite further. trapped him in whatever mockery of a _temple_ we have in this world. maybe we’ll move him after this,” he says, and his grip on jordan’s curls gets tighter, tugging it to the side and making him whine. when did his hair get this long. _three days_.

“on the other hand, watching you squirm is something of a delight. i doubt he’ll let you die. always on the brink, always _close_ , never able to get away. it won’t fix the pain- in fact, it might make it _worse_. no, captain,” the agent says with a grin, and releases his grip on jordan’s head, making it bang against the stone table and making him groan. “i think we’ll keep the little god just close enough. maybe if you’re lucky we can even give him visitation rights. let him decide if he wants to waste all the power he’s gaining on helping you. let him decide if you’re even _worth it._ ”

his breath rattles in his chest. he’s teleported back to his cell, and it puts a strain on every part of him. whatever small link dianite’s created with him becomes strained, a fraying thread, about to snap, but something, jordan supposes, is better than nothing. he can’t find ianite within him, anymore, which _terrifies_ him in ways he can’t explain, because he has never been without her. oh, he feels the balance of the land as he always does, distant as it is even in this separate world.

but he barely feels _her_. where is she, he wonders- either the one from this world, or the one from the past. where is she.

he doesn’t have the strength to take the blankets off the bed again. instead he rests his head on the cobblestone floor and curls as tight into himself as possible, careful not to twist his back too much. he screws his eyes shut to keep the world from spinning and pants for breath, begs for some type of water, and terribly, selfishly wishes that dianite had just let him die in the first place.

* * *

it’s not for another couple of days until he’s allowed to see the other.

allowed also isn’t the right word. it’s more like he’s forced into the solitary cell through a teleport again, wounds fresh and every part of his body aching, his heartbeat slower than it’s ever been. he shouldn’t be alive in any sense, he _knows_ that, and whatever dianite did to him is fading. his vision is nearly gone, so it’s a shock, suddenly, when a warm hand brushes gently across his eyes.

he flinches back immediately at the touch, and a voice soothes him quietly until he forces himself not to pull away. he doesn’t _relax,_ he’s not sure he remembers how, but the warmth of skin and the smell of burning roses makes him settle just a little more than before. everything still hurts, of course, but it’s like incense, and he feels almost calm.

“you shouldn’t have been here,” the man says, and it takes jordan a moment to remember who he was meant to be trapped with. dianite. right. “there was a portal, you all should’ve made it out.”

“...tom and karl...?”

“safe,” dianite tells him, combing his hand through jordan’s tangling curls. it takes jordan a moment to realize the god has his head in his lap, and he relishes in the warmth and the care, but does not relax. he’s learned not to ever relax here. “they’re all safe, as far as i can tell. tom’s taking care of things for me. we’re still connected.”

jordan hums tiredly. “knew he lied.”

he misses the way dianite’s face twists into a small grimace above him, guilt plain on his features. “yes, well, that was... my askance, of him. i should have known you wouldn’t have been fooled.”

jordan swallows dry air and feels his heart stumble over a slow beat. his body seizes up, and for a terrifying, haunting second, the world around him is _gone_ , and he is _gone_ ‒ but then something burns and sparks within him and his heart picks up again, and he is dragged out of death once more.

above him, dianite looks _horrified_.

“...i miss her,” jordan says weakly. “she wasn’t mine here but i... miss-”

he cuts himself off with a terrible cough that brings blood from his stomach, dark and unusual, and it leaves nearly-black spots across his hand. dianite catches his palm in his own and wipes a finger across jordan’s pale skin, wiping the blood away but smearing it further, rubbing it onto his fingertips and taking a shuddering, shocked breath.

“...what have you been eating?” dianite asks, and jordan heaves a breath as he closes his eyes and tries to remember.

“bread,” jordan says. “nothing but bread. nothing to drink- nothing for-”

he coughs again and more blood drips down his chin.

suddenly, dianite has their foreheads pressed together, and something about it makes jordan ache- the familiarity of the movement has his heart hurt, but he knows it means so much. “she isn’t gone from you,” dianite tells him. “and she never would be but _please_ , captain- _jordan_ \- i need you to-”

he feels that familiar tug of the agent about to teleport him. dianite must feel it too, and he swears. “ _jordan, declare yourself- **jordan‒”**_

he never manages to even mouth the words. the sudden teleport has him pass out the second he is taken, and he ends up in his own cell, unconscious and unaware of the earth’s shake as the fledgling god realizes his mistake.

 _sister,_ he cries. _forgive me. he will be lost and it will be my fault_.

* * *

jordan does not wake up for three days.

* * *

when he does, it is alone, alone, alone. bread on the floor and a single bottle of the potion. the world is dark, and cold, and he can’t feel his fingers or his face or any part of him beyond his back, heavy and pained, and unnaturally numb, different from the rest of him. there’s something there that wasn’t there before leaving wet tracks down his skin and dragging behind him.

“the elytra didn’t work out,” he hears the agent say somewhere off to his right, like through so many walls, but so _loudly_ that it rings in his ears. “luckily there are other options‒ and we _know_ you love the end so much.”

oh, he thinks dimly. that’s why his magic is so strange, right now, why it’s so familiar and close even when he knows he’s far from home.

there’s a snap of fingers and the numbness in his back fades. a silent scream is torn from his throat when he feels it all come back, burning worse than anything he’s ever felt before, the new extension of himself larger than he could ever imagine and he _hates it_ , hates that he can feel every drag against the floor and wall. they’re just a _part_ of him now, and he hates that it feels...

normal.

through the haze of incomprehensible pain, he remembers ruxomar again. remembers making the angel rings, and their phantom connections to his nerves. it hadn’t hurt like this, hadn’t been a burden, hadn’t made him wish he didn’t have them at all. jordan loves the sea and sky, and always has, and always would. but if this is the price he has to pay then he almost doesn’t want it.

“when they see you,” the agent says, pride in his voice as it cuts through jordan’s incapacitating _hurt_ , “then it’ll all be worth the trouble you give.”

jordan croaks low in his throat, choking on his pleas that never escape his lips. his connection to the god that keeps him alive is just that, now- no presence in his mind, no ties near his chest or on his heart. dianite is gone, save for the last magic that traps jordan down to living. he is shackled to the living world‒ imprisoned to surviving.

and jordan understands the priest just a little bit more, now.

when the footsteps of the agent fade away, he reaches out and grasps the little glass bottle with whatever strength he can muster, and crushes the thin container in his hand, watching the cracks spiderweb across the surface until it shatters in his grip, leaving tiny glass shards in his palm. the potion soaks into the bread nearby and jordan pushes himself away from the mess, hyper aware of his wings pressing against the wall, over sensitive and like constant static without the space to truly spread and the strength to even try.

he falls asleep hungry, still dehydrated, and wishing, hoping, someone would just _kill him_.

* * *

**“what did you _do.”_**

the voice jolts him awake and makes him whine, pushing further against the wall at the sudden noise.

it has been another week, he thinks. the ebb and flow of mortality is draining him. he wondered many times if declan ever got sick, like this, if the priest had to take care of himself like he was still _human_. is jordan’s immortality different? conditional?

he thinks dianite had to have been there for jordan to swear himself to him, then. he can’t even form the words, much less say them aloud. he’s been refusing to eat, now, and though it makes his stomach curl, he doesn’t trust the bread. not after what dianite had asked, not after his blood had only gotten darker. he finds it strange that the only things changing about him are the scars on his skin and the length of his hair, and what the _give_ him. he loses so little. he has not changed in state or stature- he still has the same muscle mass, the same build. he just can’t _use_ any of it, so faded, so drained.

“i thought-” the agent’s voice comes, and there’s a loud crunch that makes him curl in on himself, a sudden yelp of pain.

 **“you should not think again,”** the stranger says, and now jordan sees the smoke in the hall through the door, and the recognition starts to settle in. **“you’d think i want _this_ for him? you _thought_ i wanted you to break him down to complete pieces? you _thought_ that it would be better if he was afraid of my every act, afraid of what would _help him_?”**

the door opens for the first time in a long time. jordan is so used to teleporting that the noise of the lock makes him jump, his wings flaring out just a little in defense, desperate to curl them around himself if he could have the mindset to actually do it. the darkness steps in, fully formed and stark against the dimmest lighting in the room. behind them, jordan sees the agent on the floor, cradling his arms to his chest, voided eyes full of hatred and disdain towards him, and then his vision is blocked by the darkness.

he can’t help himself, his breath quickens when his heartbeat doesn’t, his wings expanding even more and he uses the strength he has to push himself further up the wall. the darkness sighs, and crouches down, slowly reaching out. jordan doesn’t even have the energy to flinch away, anymore‒ but his breath catches when the touch is gentle and calm, brushing his hair from his eyes, wiping the blood from his chin. they are cold, but it’s a _feeling_ against the consistent numbness he is used to. **“oh, captain,”** the darkness says. **“will you let me _help?”_**

jordan can’t do this anymore.

he nods.

* * *

he wakes up at home.

it’s not quite the same, he knows in an instant- there is rubble where the walls should be, and dark particles in the sky around him- always night, here, and he can barely see past the edge of his own feet when he rests in his bed. the darkness was kind enough to find him end rods for him so that he could regain the use of his sight, little by little. he finds the deity is not _bad_ ‒ it is simply their agents, their perceived nature. jordan understands that now.

 **“if they need something to fear,”** they said. **“then i am happy to oblige.”**

“is there true evil?” jordan asks when he can feel his voice again, and they sigh, long and slow, and give him another cup of water without answering.

(and he’s never been more grateful in his life for something so simple- it is the dying man’s nectar, and it is _everywhere_. the seawater outside stings when he uses it to bathe, and it hurts against old wounds, but it feels nice to watch the red fade away, to feel _cleansed,_ for once. he’d prefer if it was warm, but there is no sun here, and he does not fault the world for that. his hair reaches his shoulders, now, and the water helps him untangle the matted, dirty curls.)

“are you using me?” he asks another day. the darkness looks at him, sitting in the bed‒ not unable to walk on his own, but still working through his strength, up to what he used to be. “or at the very least, do you have plans to use me?”

 **“...i do,”** they say, and reach over to tuck his hair behind his ears. he doesn’t move away, or bother caring. **“obviously they’ve been changed, due to the state you’re in, but i do have plans. and you are a very large part of them.”**

they catch his chin between their fingers, and _now_ , his breath hitches, his heart stops. **“does that upset you?”**

“it might have, once,” he says quietly. “i don’t know if i care much anymore.”

they smile, and let him go.

(they don’t tell him it wouldn’t have mattered either way. they are not _happy_ with what their agent has done, but they do not look at the gift too closely. the captain has lost hope, and lost heart, and the darkness is happy to give him something to hold on to again, should he need it, and he _does_ , the poor boy. and the darkness _does_ care for him, and only wants him to succeed. only wants him to be _perfect_.)

he learns to fly, eventually. or he remembers to. he is used to the feeling of them, by now, and used to the way they used to throw him off. he becomes conscious of how large they are, aware of the space they take up when he walks. they simply _are_ , now, and so jordan adapts appropriately.

“how long has it been?” he questions, tumbling freely through the air, and the darkness, connected to him, hums.

**“time is a loosely followed concept here. it could be only a single month, for the main realm, but in here it may have felt like two weeks, or two years. your hair seems to have grown over _many_ months, but your body never failed you even after your lack of necessities.”**

“and another question?”

he can feel their smile. **“yes, captain?”**

“...what happened to dianite?”

 **“he’s still in the prison, little one,”** the darkness says, and jordan feels himself seize up. **“if you’d like, we can go see him. his champion should be coming to break him out, soon, actually.”**

jordan spends a long moment perched on one of the bits of darkness in the sky, looking out over the glassy ocean. “...yeah,” he says quietly, and tests the power of his wings again. “yes, i’d like that.”

**“tomorrow, then.”**

he backflips off towards the depths. he deserves to be showy, for now.

(that night, when he can’t feel the darkness watching, he tugs gently on that lock and chain that intertwined itself in his blood and beating heart. it is not strong, and it is not easy to find, but he _pulls_ , hard, again and again until he’s sweating and his nose is bleeding, until he finally feels the god at the other end, distant and strained as he is. the thread was never cut, jordan realizes‒ only hidden in shadows so that he could not take use of it. so he was forced to be _alone_. he does what he can to keep that connection strong, and whispers to the god of chaos from way high up, where the connection is clear. he tells him what he knows, and what he thinks, and what should come about in the day that they both face tomorrow.

dianite assents quietly‒ or perhaps it’s just the distance‒ and then tells him, “it’s good to hear you’re alive, boy.”)

* * *

“would you give me... just a moment?” jordan asks with his head lowered.

being here again makes him sick to his stomach. the darkness assured him beforehand that the agent would not be anywhere near him‒ _**it would be too soon,**_ they had said, a growl in their voice that make jordan’s panic spike for just a moment until it had settled in his mind that it wasn’t directed towards him‒ but it isn’t the agent himself anymore. it is the sight of the cobble and stone brick, the smell of the nether rack and redstone torches, and the dryness of the air.

he keeps his wings drawn in tight, wrapped around him like a shield. they’d probably be good for that. the scales are tough, and the weight is warm. it scares him, honestly, how weird it would be to live without them, now. even with his back still raw. even with the nightmares.

the darkness takes one look at him, and nods.

 _ **if you can,**_ they whisper to him as the door opens to allow him inside, _**convince him to help us.**_

jordan tries not to flinch at the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, and the lock clicking into place.

when dianite looks up at him, it’s with steady confidence. “hello again, captain.”

“hello, sir,” jordan says, ever polite. the smell of burning roses fills his nose the closer he gets, the heat a comfort he didn’t know he _missed_ , like a hearth in a home. he remembers, briefly, many years ago before he’d been able to place that natural magic in himself‒ he remembers he’d almost gone to join dianite, so early on. only for balance, at first, but back in ruxomar, it had almost seemed worth it.

a memory sprouts in his mind when dianite meets his eyes.

“ _i want you on my team. i will get you on my team.”_

he swallows, and takes another few steps forward‒ and then opens his palm, and dangles the key. “are they coming?”

dianite nods, shuffling forwards, and murmuring just low enough beneath his breath for jordan to hear him. “they’ll be here soon. they left early.”

jordan hums, busy trying to focus on unlocking the heavy metal around dianite’s wrist without making too much noise. he’s lucky enough that the darkness has left him alone for the time being, not even keeping an eye on him. but there’s something deep in his veins that knows it won’t be that easy, and he doesn’t like the way it makes his gut sink. jordan is a man of instinct. he knows when things are going to go wrong. and he can tell something about this is _wrong_.

“how in the realms,” dianite hisses quietly, “have you pulled this off?”

“well,” jordan whispers nicely in return, “i don’t know if you know this, but i’m not as terrible a liar as most think.”

“chaotic little bastard,” dianite grins, and flexes his wrists when the shackles fall off into jordan’s waiting hands.

“don’t get your hopes up.”

there’s a familiar crash from down the hall, and at the noise, jordan jolts. dianite catches him as he falls, his hands nearly burning against jordan’s suddenly frozen skin, and the god makes a noise jordan doesn’t know how to comprehend.

“what did they give you,” dianite says, pulling jordan into a standing position. “what did they _give you while you were gone?_ ”

jordan’s mouth is dry again in an instant. all of his energy is gone, again, seeped out of him, stolen in a moment, and jordan recognizes the feeling of wounds reopening, of his stomach emptying, of every part of him slipping back into death again, and he knows something went wrong. of course it was too good to be true. he was too trusting, for _once_ , he thought he was safe‒ he can feel himself about to cry, but his body is devoid of extra water, again, and he can’t, he _can’t-_

dianite maneuvers his deadweight into a more manageable position, holding him close and carrying him tucked into his side. “c’mon then, captain,” the god says, letting jordan try to catch his breath. “your friends are coming for you now.”

 _no,_ jordan thinks. _they’re coming for you. i’m just the consolation prize._

he hears the others before he sees anything‒ he lets his eyes slip closed. he trusts dianite to guide him safely without him having to pay too much attention, and all he is is a burden right now anyways. they don’t _need_ him, this time around. the others will get him out.

what he doesn’t see, he hears, though.

“dianite, we need to leave-”

“down this way, tom, c’mon, i can see him‒”

“does he have someone with him?”

“oh, gods,” and that’s declan, that’s the priest, and his voice is grating and makes jordan flinch. there’s so much pity, so much hurt, so much guilt and regret and sadness. “jordan...”

tom and karl aren’t saying anything, but he can feel their stares. another unfortunate twist of fate, of his own blood, of the end magic etched into his entire being, remade. he knows what it’s like to be _watched_ , and he hates it. he hates it. stop looking, stop _looking, **stop looking-**_

“we need to get out,” dianite says, cutting into the heavy silence. “the captain can’t stand to be here much longer. i think he was kept in some kind of dreamstate, some kind of stasis.”

“they put him in the _void_?” declan asks, horrified, and tom takes a sharp inhale. jordan curls closer to the warmth, screws his eyes tighter.

it makes sense, he supposes. it had seemed so easy to just have been treated so kindly. the whole time he’d been in his mirrored tower, it had felt wrong, still too cold, still too out of place. he’d deluded himself into thinking it was real. it’s so _easy_ to fly, when there’s nothing truly around him. so then what was the point of this? what was the point of bringing him _back_ , letting him let dianite out? what was the plan, what was the use, what is jordan good for except bait for _traps_?

“come on, then,” karl says. “mianite helped make a portal out. we don’t have long before it’s found.”

“how long did it take him to work up his strength for that?” dianite asks. jordan is jostled and makes a low whine in the back of his throat when he’s picked up into what he assumes must be an easier carry, and the god takes a moment to expend what little magic he is able to muster to soothe the burning ice in jordan’s veins. “did ianite help?”

the pause is uncomfortable. jordan becomes hyper aware of his hair in his face, too long, still matted and tangled.

“a month,” dec says eventually. “and no, ianite...”

“ianite’s gone, mate,” tom cuts in, when dec doesn’t finish the sentence. “has been since you both got trapped here.”

since _jordan_ got trapped here, he doesn’t say aloud.

“let’s go,” karl says, and jordan hisses as he’s jolted in dianite’s grasp, curls tighter into himself and tries not to think about the blood on his skin.

 _sleep now, captain_ , dianite whispers to him, and, thankfully, jordan does.

* * *

he dreams of nothing.

it’s not so much no dream at all, because jordan hasn’t _not_ had a dream in years. it’s a part of him, now, because it was all he had in his stasis of the void. dreams are different, there- connecting him to other worlds, to others who dream like him, to others who are a part of the game, a part of the whole of the universe. he thinks of the words that are said to him in each new dream, after every first dragon. dreamed again. dreamed better.

is it better, he wonders, when there is an emptiness in his heart, and in his mind?

the smoke of the darkness curls around his limbs and traps him again, rips into his wings and even though he knows, he _knows_ it’s not real, he still tries to scream, and the void steals his voice the moment it leaves him.

 _ **do not think you are safe in your home, little captain,**_ the deity hisses to him. _**i own a part of you, now, and i always have. you cannot escape the reality of your nature‒**_

he wakes up in a panic, wings aching, sweat pouring down every inch of his skin. he’s in a silk-sheeted bed, his wings flared out to the sides, dark oak above him, and bookshelves around his view, and it takes a moment to recognize the priest’s tower, takes a moment to recognize the _priest_ , hushing him gently, washing his face down with a cold, wet cloth, brushing his hair away. jordan sobs at the sight of the glass of water on the stand next to him, wordlessly begs, and declan helps him, carefully, take slow sips. it tastes clean, and clear, and _perfect_ , and jordan has to struggle not to choke on it in his haste.

“gentle now, jordan,” dec tells him, pushing his hair back so, so gently, with warm, rough hands, the glass steadily tilting further. “it’s alright. you’re safe now. it’s alright.”

jordan sobs at the feeling it gives his heart. to hear someone he _does_ trust say it, for once. to feel like it might actually be true. declan soothes him, and helps him through the full glass, and spreads a soft paste on jordan’s wounds, helping him sit up to get it between his shoulder blades, where the wings are fused to his skin. he recognizes the smells of blaze powder and nether wart, and notices the telling shine of a ghast tear, and wonders, briefly, why dec didn’t just bother making a pot‒

he chokes at the thought. declan stops, checking to see he’s alright, and he makes a small noise of apology.

after the priest is done, he lays him back down and wipes his face down with the wet cloth again, pulling the silk and cotton covers up over him as gently as he can. “try to rest,” he tells him. “it’s all you can do to heal, now.”

when he’s gone, the torches and lanterns in the room stay alight. but when jordan closes his eyes, it’s nothing but emptiness, again, and the darkness laughs, cold and cruel.

_**you need darkness to balance out light.** _

jordan wishes he didn’t know how to dream.

* * *

the next few days‒ and he knows they’re actual days, now, as the sun rises and shines through the open balconies, through the stained glass, and casts light over him like a fresh wave each morning‒ are a haze, at best. he wakes in the morning, shaking and sweating through the sheets, and declan comes in to help him sit up, and, in time, to help him take steps from the bed. he’s been wiped down with cold cloths and buckets of water‒ he watches, uselessly, as dec comes in with clean water, and leaves with bloodied, muddled liquid that reminds him of the water between farm crops. uselessly, uselessly. that’s all he is now, isn’t it?

by the fourth day, he is steady on his feet, steady with his wings, steady in his stride. nothing hurts when he moves, and while he still has dizzy spells, and migraines, he can _move_ again. he takes careful, slow steps into the sunlight as it rises above the ocean, and feels his heart swell with something like _hope_ for the first time in‒ in a very long while.

the salty air brings him a peace he hasn’t known for many _years_ ‒ since before the isles, the ocean had long since escaped him.

he misses his tree. he misses his _ship_.

he wonders, briefly, if the others know that captain was not a _nickname_ , or a joke. the closest thing he’d gotten to anyone recognizing him as what he’d been was capsize, so many years ago. he’d wondered, then, if she’d been able to tell who he was by his sailing style, or perhaps, simply, by the stories so many had told, back then. what the hell had they called him, on the seas, in the tales‒ it hadn’t been sparkles, he knows as much. that was tom’s doing, affectionate and terrible as it was.

he thinks back for a moment. lets himself fall into the memories as a comfort.

their boat that tucker built them was‒ admittedly‒ well done, but still missing a few key elements that jordan was happy to oblige helping fix. it rocked gentle on the ocean and jordan had found the dance of keeping his feet steady a welcome and familiar one, nostalgic in a way he’d known the others wouldn’t quite understand. capsize had paused, at one point or another, and ended up watching him as he’d reorganized the rigging that tucker had somehow fucked up beyond recognition.

“ye seem t' know yer way around it all,” she’d said, coming over and leaning against the railing, letting the wind ruffle her hair. “know much about th’ craft, then?”

“not really,” jordan had told her. “just a few things i’ve picked up for survival.”

“well, as a reward, i'd be happy t' tell ye a few tales from our time on th' seas, if ye don't mind.”

he hadn’t been able to help himself, and he’d smiled, and stood, and followed her to her office, where her brother had been uncorking rum and pouring it, sloppily, into some extra mugs. for the first time in a while, he’d let himself relax. the stress of the past few weeks seemed to fade‒ the overlying weight of it all was still heavy on his heart and mind, but now they were closer than ever before. something else, too, had made him so happy that night specifically, and had lightened so much of the guilt‒ ah, right.

that had been the day he’d first seen her, hadn’t it?

it jolts him out of his reverie, for a moment, curling in his chest. he _misses_ her. he wonders if she knows he’s alive. he wonders if she knows he’s been hurt. he wonders if capsize and redbeard are okay‒ they’d become his siblings, in a way. it’d been nice to have them.

they’d told him the tales he’d known and stories he hadn’t, getting drunk into the night with uplifted spirits. _to ianite_ , they’d crowed, and jordan had felt so _happy_ , not being completely alone in his faith. not being completely alone at _all_.

and then they’d begun to tell him a tale that was familiar only because he’d lived it.

how had it ended. what had they _called him_ ‒ the night is drowned in alcohol's sweet haze.

“they say thar be a cap'n who's ship moves without anyone knowin' 'til he's close enough t' destroy th' enemy's owns,” capsize had told him in a low voice, mug empty, lantern flickering low. “he's said t' move like he be untouchable, that he fights steadfast 'n sails easy in th' night, finds comfort in storms 'n when th' sun won't reflect off o' th' water.”

“he's a real hermit o' a scallywag,” redbeard had added. “keeps hisself carefully out o' public eye. 'n those who haven't met 'im ne'er will, beyond his passin' attacks when th' moon be new.”

“does he have a name?” jordan had asked, his own mug empty, a lazy smile on his face.

what was it, what was it, what _was it-_

“call 'im th' shadow.”

the memory shatters like the wood under his palm, like the glass he drops to the floor. he hears declan begin to come up the stairs, but it doesn’t register properly, because now jordan’s minds is worlds away, back in those nightmares, making him want to fucking _scream_ , to yell, to break something, to break himself.

_**i have always been a part of you.** _

declan finds him kneeling in broken glass and wood, tears streaming down his face.

“c’mon,” he says, and helps jordan back to his feet and to the bed. “let’s get that hand bandaged up.”

“just. give me a pot, dec,” jordan says eventually, as the other man moves around his storage area searching for the mortar and pestle. “it’s not worth the effort. i shouldn’t‒ it’s stupid. it’s just a stupid fucking potion, it’s not going to _kill me_.”

he’s shaking at the thought of it, though, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. the priest stops what he’s doing and turns to him in an instant, taking quick, long strides across the room to meet him at his bed (and it really is his, now, because where is he meant to go. the stone of his own tower makes him sick. he thinks he remembers dec saying they’d change it, if he likes)‒

and dec takes his face in his hands (so careful, so gentle, so warm and kind and _real_ ) and after a long moment, pulls him into his chest and wraps his arms around him, rubbing slow circles into his back. “it’s okay to not be okay yet, jordan,” he says into the silence. “it’s _okay_.”

jordan hiccups. tries to catch his breath. tries to keep himself calm. tries to be strong, for once, for _once_ , because he has to be, because he always has been, because that’s who he _is_ , isn’t it.

dec hums an old sea song, soft and long-forgotten by so many others, and jordan hiccups again, and brings his arms up around the other man, and cries.

* * *

tom and karl visit a few days after that.

jordan’s able to stand on the balcony and very nearly not have a breakdown. right now, he has to wear dec’s pants‒ they’re way too long, and just barely fit around his waist, and it’s an odd combination, but it makes him smile nonetheless, something he hasn’t really be doing much of lately. just a little is enough.

the boys aren’t _quiet_ , coming up the stairs, but the closer they get he begins to hear them shush one another, and the heavy footfalls turn to little careful squeaks against the wood.

“don’t be a dick,” he hears karl say what he must think is quietly, and he can’t help it anymore‒ he snorts into his tea, and can’t stop the hesitant laughter that’s been missing for so long. he turns his head to them, then, and finds tom with his hat in his hands, crushing it nervously, but smiling just as well. karl’s next to him, scratching the back of his head, embarrassed, and flushed bright.

“hi,” he croaks. his voice is still rusty with disuse. he doesn’t like the feeling of his tongue in his own mouth.

they smile back at him, brighter and wider‒ but when he turns to face them fully, he has to adjust his wings to fold in tighter to his back to do it, and he doesn’t miss the way their expressions drop, their gazes flicker upwards. it’s not so much a stab to his heart as it is a pinprick reminder that nothing will be the same between them. will they be more careful around him‒ will they treat him like the stained glass windows, with the reverence of him being _broken_? is he broken? can he be fixed, will it _matter_?

he tries not to overthink it as the wind brushes over his curls and soothes certain burning points on his skin. “c’mon,” he says instead. “let’s go down to the beach.”

“are you‒” karl starts, but tom elbows him in his stomach, and jordan laughs again.

“can’t just ask the man if he’s okay, karl, gods,” tom says, and ruffles the other man’s hair enough to shove it into his face. “like, honestly, mate. would you be?”

karl stumbled backwards trying to fix his hair and tripped down one of the stairs, shouting in surprise, and now jordan’s face is starting to ache from smiling. he _missed_ them, gods, he missed them. tom watches to make sure karl doesn’t fall too far down the steps, to make sure he rights himself properly, before turning back to jordan with a more serious expression.

“but‒”

“i’m not perfect,” jordan stops him, setting his mug down on the bedside table and taking a jar of protection lotion from the shelf next to it. “but for _now_ , i’m... working towards being okay.”

“you’re allowed to not be, you know,” tom says, abnormally gentle and kind, and jordan swallows thickly, fighting off a fresh wave of emotion and tears. “been through hell, from what i can tell.”

“i’ve heard talking it out helps,” jordan murmurs, and tom’s brow furrows before recognition hits, and he holds out his hand.

“well, it’s a good thing we’re here to listen.”

jordan snorts and grabs his sunglasses. “you’re _terrible_ listeners.”

“oi!”

“he’s not wrong,” karl calls from just below, and tom heaves a great sigh.

but he squeezes when jordan takes his hand, nothing too tight‒ and jordan, admittedly, had been afraid of what tom would feel like to him after all of this. but tom’s skin, while still just _too_ cold to be just human, is thriving with energy, with a magic jordan knows all too well, pulsing with chaotic energy, thrumming like a heartbeat in an uncanny way. tom’s heart does not beat _badum, badum, badum_ , like any other humans‒ instead it flickers and jumps as it pleases, fights against the natural way of things. tom has chaos in every inch of him, as it stands to be shown in a champion of the type.

the way tom’s magic feels brings that connection forcibly forged to life within jordan, and when he takes a moment to himself while walking down the stairs, he tugs on his own magic, and finds, incredulously, two bright energies‒ one so long standing, lavender hazes and chorus petals, and one so fragile and new, sparking ashes and fresh rosebuds.

two gods. jordan has _two‒_

he takes a very slow, very deep breath, and makes his way down the rest of the stairs, trying not to focus on the budding panic in his chest. when, he asks himself. _when_. because it hadn’t been a pledge of loyalty, it had been a show of force. dianite had not let him die. that was _it_.

wasn’t it?

he gets to the open door and pushes it from his mind, and steps, barefoot, out onto the grass, into the sun. he flinches at the light‒ which, in turn, makes him angry at himself for a moment‒ and pushes his sunglasses up his nose further and ducks his head away from the brightness. he only keeps half of himself in the sunlight‒ his skin is too pale and even just the slightest touch of the warmth seems to want to burn into him, burn _through_ him, cleanse him completely, and the only reason he can even stand it anymore is because of his time on the porch upstairs, where it hurts _less_ where the clouds touch, where the stained glass shines, where it’s still artificial light, on the inside, and it doesn’t have to remind him every second of every day what nearly happened, and what _did_. where flickering lanterns and snapping fireplaces and fizzling torches are just enough to keep his vision from leaving him completely, if he keeps his glasses off indoors, and it’s enough to ward off the dancing shadows when the sun begins to set.

he can’t avoid the sun in order to step into the sand, and he resigns himself to the sting of it.

but the sand is a comfortable warmth against his feet, soft and yielding, and the smell of saltwater is a thousand times crisper and cleaner and _clear_ in his lungs, and jordan feels at home again, _really_ at home, with the sound of the water pulling and pushing at the shore, crashing against itself not too far off, the call of the gulls, the echo of dolphins. even after nearly drowning, so many years ago, he’d returned to the beach they’d found him on so many times in the night, feeling that tug on his heart when the tides would pull low.

only now does he understand the importance of it all, only _now_ does he recognize the ocean for what it is. tridents fit so easily in his hand, and drowned seem to echo the faces of fallen sailors he’d known by tale or by face. push, pull. give and take. home to so much life. grave to just as many.

jordan had always been a man of the sea, and it wasn’t until the gods that he’d known _why_.

* * *

the next few hours are like a dream, and it shouldn’t be as unsettling as it is that he’s _allowed_ that.

it’s the feeling of the saltwater, appropriately warmed. it’s the sound of his friends, his _brothers_ , the people he loves so much, laughing like nothing had ever changed, like nothing had gone _wrong_. after a small while, the sun didn’t hurt any more, it wasn’t his focus‒ it faded from a constant burn to a gentle static, not quite a numbness, but just something so easy to forget about. something normal, again.

the first hesitance that comes is when he goes to get in the water completely‒ his wings, which are just so much a part of him that he forgets the time before he even had them‒ he’s worried they’ll hurt in the water, worried because of where they’re from. he’s not _wrong_. the first time he steps into it everything pricks like thousands of pins and needles. _everything_ , not just the wings, and it punches the breath out of him for just a moment until it settles into the back of his mind like everything else.

when he ducks under and opens his eyes, the water is like crystal. he lets himself sink to the banks of the ocean floor and relaxes, getting used to his hair floating around him. the cod begin to swim between his limbs, schooling closer and closer to him, greeting him home until his lungs are about to give out and he pushes himself back up to the surface.

and eventually, they’re all lying on the blankets in the sand, a lull in the conversations, a moment to enjoy one another’s company for the first time in a month. jordan instinctively curls one of his wings up for shade, to block the sun from his already sensitive eyes‒ wraps it around himself like a shield, and feels himself in the halfway space between being awake and asleep‒ aware of his surroundings, but drifting away so easily. everything is both distant, and close, dreamlike and real, a state of disassociation he reaches in his most comfortable moments.

so it’s now or never.

“i want to tell you,” he says into the open air, and pretends he doesn’t hear the way their breaths hitch, their hearts skip.

and when they don’t say anything, he starts before he can stop himself.

it starts like melting ice, slow, and dripping, stumbling over every word, trying to figure out how to word it, how to encapsulate it all, how to explain that all surrounding feeling of abandonment, of fear, of desperate terrible loneliness that he’s not sure they’ll ever understand even when he explains as best he can what it’s _like_ to be so empty, so cold. his breath hitches when he gets to the food, the potion, how does he tell them without‒ like pressure in a storm, the hull cracks, just a little, and the water spills faster. the _words_ do.

“i’ve had the potion since the beginning,” he spits in the middle. “i didn’t‒ i thought‒ i didn’t want to _use it_ ‒”

the hull is breached. the wood buckles and breaks. and the boat floods, and with it, jordan pours.

“it’s all they gave me,” he hiccups. “bread and potion. i was dehydrated by the third day.”

“how are you still alive?” tom asks, so gently‒ the first words either have spoken since he’s begun, and jordan keeps hesitating in his words, choking them back down his throat. he doesn’t know how to- phrase it, to say it, to just let him know that-

“your god,” jordan whispers, “forced me to _live._ ”

tom wants to ask more questions, jordan can tell, but it’s remarkably telling of how jordan must look that he _doesn’t_. and jordan keeps going. keeps diving deeper below like it’s going to save him, like drowning in his own mind will make things better, will help him _forget_ the hurt and _forget_ the emptiness and _forget_ the dryness in his mouth and throat and the sick feeling in his stomach and the starch aftertaste of the bread‒

(and he _knows_ now that it wasn’t right, but he was so desperate for something, anything, just to _eat_ , to have something steady, he never noticed the bitterness, the metallic taste, even the slightest discoloration. that’s not something you _look_ for, when you’re starving, and scared, and alone, and out of your element. it’s not what you look for when you’re being tortured, and you’ve been abandoned, and already dizzy and weak because this is not your _home_ , you miss the end, you miss the towers, the offwhite stone, the fountain, the fruit, the _temple, the city, you want to go home, you want to go **home**_ \- and you can’t-)

‒and it fixes nothing. it horrifies them, he knows it does, but he can’t stop. he can’t stop the way his wings curl tighter around him when he describes what it was like waking up with something you can’t control, he can’t stop explaining how it felt to die and be dragged back to living, he can’t stop any of it. he can’t stop trying to tell tom about dianite, about how he’d begged for jordan to join him to _save_ him, he can’t stop trying to tell tom he’s so fucking _lucky_ , he can’t stop thinking about how ianite is gone and it’s his fault, it has to be, because he was _weak_ , and he wanted so, so badly, just to be saved, by something, anything, any _one_.

and the darkness had offered and he’d believed it. had held out a hand and jordan had so stupidly took it. and jordan had lost time, and energy, and will, and hope, and heart, and faith. and jordan had trapped himself in the void and let himself believe he was safe.

he just wanted to be free. of that endless cycle of death and life and repeat. and it was dumb, and selfish, and terrible, and he’s worthless and _weak_ , and he’s nothing, nothing, nothing‒

and he feels them on either side, karl to his left, tom to his right, their energies thriving, their magic strong and overwhelming, static and lightning and sparks and ash, and though it isn’t perfect, the mix is _enough_ , and he unwraps himself and lets them _in._

and once they are pressed against him into a tight hug, warm and reassuring and grounded, jordan lets himself break down fully in this mockery of what is his, stuck, willingly, between order and chaos, wrapping his wings around his brothers, and letting himself sob.

* * *

dianite visits him when the moon hits it’s peak in the sky, appearing on the balcony glass, glowing dimly against the night sky.

jordan feels a twist in his gut that’s familiar just before he comes, and remembers what he’d been trying so hard to forget. he wants to curl up into the bed and pretend like it’s not happening, like he can’t feel that wild energy within him, like he’s never had that bias all along. but instead he does nothing and lays awake in bed, watching the firelight flicker back and forth on the ceiling until the god _pops_ into existence on the railing across the room.

“i know you’re awake,” dianite tells him quietly. “do you mind if i come in?”

“i could use the company,” jordan says, shuffling over to one side of his bed to leave room for the god to sit. he slides from the glass and crosses the room, bringing the smell of a campfire and the warmth of summer with him, and casting the room into his red aura. he doesn’t seem to have a good hold on that part yet. jordan closes his eyes and feels the bed dip beside him.

it is quiet, for a while, until dianite shifts, and moves his hand just a touch too close, and brushes against jordan, for the briefest of moments, and the world tilts on its edge, and jordan _feels_ it, all of it, thriving lifetimes and expanding stars on the brink of their own deaths. chaos flows through him like he’s a conduit and sparks every one of his nerves alight, and for a moment, he feels like more than he ever has, except for _once_.

for once, so long ago, when she’d gone, and he’d been left kneeling at the base of what she had left behind, swathed in the last of her free magic, and through the grief it had felt like a livewire, coating him in crashing waves and moonlight at midnight, the perfect emptiness of distance and the painful press of being just too close. it was everything he’d ever known times a thousand, the unforgiving weight of it all it, and then, in an instant, it had all collapsed from under him, and the last of her had been blown away.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry‒” he hears dianite say as he blinks his eyes open. “i didn’t mean‒ usually it’s not so strong.”

“it’s a new bond,” jordan says. “it’s going to be.”

another silence.

“why did you do it,” he asks in a near-silent breath, and part of him hopes for no answer, but he turns his head up to dianite anyways, and meets the god’s‒ _his_ god’s‒ eyes.

"i told you," dianite says, with humor in his tone that didn't show in his face. "years ago, for you, but years away from me. i want you on my team."

" _i will get you,_ " jordan finishes, " _on my team._ "

dianite smiles. it doesn't seem as smug as jordan expected it to be.

“would you have preferred if i let you die?” he asks. jordan can’t meet his gaze after that, because the truth‒

the truth is that _yes_. yes, jordan would have preferred to die. jordan wishes he could have, wishes he was gone by the first time they’d taken a knife to his skin. he can’t‒ he doesn’t‒ his heart beats too erratically now, and he _knows_ it, knows the way it should be, knows that he shouldn’t feel anything chaining him to the world. effectively, jordan is immortal, effectively, jordan cannot _leave_ , but it isn’t the same, is it? because he can still go through death, he still feels that pain. he still starves and suffers and breaks and feels pain. the world leaves its mark on him, and it always will, and it will not let him _go._

“can you take it back?” he asks in return.

dianite doesn’t answer‒ instead, he gestures for jordan to sit up, and jordan does, tucking his wings in closer, until he feels that jolt of energy again and is pulled by calloused hands to lay down again. he finds himself in a position that echoes the one in that solitary cell, and dianite is ever so careful with his power, jordan can tell. he pulls his curls back gently, gently, soft between his fingers, and swallows uneasily.

“i don’t know,” the god says. jordan’s heart sinks, just a small amount, because it’s more or less exactly what he expected. “i didn’t even know i could do it.”

“you did it to declan.”

 _“we_ did it to the priest. all three of us. together. this is... different.”

“no kidding,” jordan whispers. he closes his eyes and breathes, slow and steady, and feels dianite lean down to press their heads together like before.

“something else was in you, captain. some other magic that made it real,” the god murmurs, and jordan’s heart slows to normal as he _thinks_ , really thinks, and as he breathes in every scent, and as he feels the other’s aura overwhelm him. he thinks about her and he thinks about the other her and he thinks about the one he drove away, intentionally or not. he thinks about how alone he was but how _right_ it felt to find her.

and then he thinks about how, just in the before, even in the briefest of moments, the idea of dianite had felt right too. that when he’d beaten that challenge, at the temple, he’d felt _pride_. when he’d worn the armor, it’d settled right‒ and when dianite had tried to test him to take it back, he’d felt‒ angry. selfish. bitter. why should he give it back? wasn’t it his, now, hadn’t tom lost it properly? why should he have to prove himself for this?

“chaotic little bastard,” he grumbles to himself, and feels dianite laugh above him, letting him go.

“i can see if mianite would help to stabilize it further,” the god says, leaning back against the headboard and threading his fingers into jordan’s hair again. “if you... needed. or wanted. but i don’t know how breaking it off is going to work very well.”

“it’s fine,” jordan says. he doesn’t mention that dianite’s blunt nails against his scalp‒ mixed with the gentle tug against his hair, and the lulling scent of distant flowers‒ is putting him to sleep. “i’d rather not get a third god involved with my bullshit.”

“that’s alright then,” dianite tells him. “i don’t care sharing with my brother much anyways.”

“and with your‒” he yawns, long and soft, and misses dianite’s smirk, “‒sister?”

“ianite will understand.”

it’s the last thing sentence wise he hears before he drifts to sleep, but he doesn’t miss the first notes dianite hums of an old song jordan thinks he recognizes, briefly‒ less by sound, but more by instinct, more by the knowledge of a life that was never his. it is one part of a whole, and it makes him wish for the things he never had back. for a childhood home, with a mother, at the least, for baked goods and home meals and someone to _learn_ from, a reason to grow normal. he could have been a librarian, he thinks. he would have liked that. peace, and silence, and _books_. but on the other hand.

he knows the sea would’ve called him. he knows she would have drawn him to her, in time, and he would’ve gone. he knows chaos would have sparked awake his desire. he knows he is not made for the peaceful lifestyle, he knows he would have gone and messed it up for himself, somehow, because he is not one to settle, is he?

imagine him a king, he thinks‒ imagine him settling in ruxomar, like andor had offered. would he have been able to stay?

or would ruxomar have sunk to nothing like they’d left it, into another forgotten home of memories, because of his inability to leave well enough alone? because of his constant drive to do more, be more, to live up to what he expect of himself. would jordan have been the ruin of the kingdom on his own. would he have split apart with it? would he have been okay with it?

* * *

he wakes up to the smell of sweet smoke and the buzz of constant energy tingling under his skin, but with sweat on his brow and an ache in his back and a heavy drumbeat for a pulse, echoing on and on and on in his head, a call to action. he stumbles out of bed, every inch of him alive and alert, and casts his gaze over the balcony. the winds threaten to knock him over, tangle his hair and tug at it harshly, every part of him stands to attention, his skin prickling, his wings flaring out behind him, angry and strong.

he steps up onto the glass, and launches himself out into the early morning sky.

it is grey, and dim, but still bright enough that he knows it’s still _right_ , and he catches himself soaring instinctively towards where the winds are dragging him. he changes coarse and pitches upwards, against the currents straight up to the clouds, swirling and pitched.

up here, the electricity spikes, lightning dancing around him, dangerously bright, and jordan is out of his own element, but revels in the energy it brings, in the sparks that threaten to brush across his skin, and just barely miss. he’s been smited before‒ not something he’s enjoyed, not really, but he knows what it can do, knows how it feels, and knows, if it happens up here, it will make him feel alive in a way he hasn’t in a while.

voices carry up to him on the air, and he sighs. a bolt of electricity dances near him and he feels it singe his arm, and with a breath of laughter, he blows a kiss to the clouds and folds his wings in, and _dives_.

he hears shouts of shock over the water and grins to himself, and it hurts his face, to smile so wide, and catches himself on the air, straining his strength. it feels good, he thinks, to fly without limits, so close to home, and when he sees them all on the beach he lands gently, trying not to create too much of a sand cloud.

“that,” karl tells him with a wide smile, “was _brilliant_.”

“jordan, mate, holy _shit_ ,” tom adds on, and claps him on the shoulder lightly with a little shake. jordan tilts his head and shrugs, suddenly embarrassed, flushing under the praise.

“hello, captain,” mianite says, and jordan, grateful for the distraction, nods in greeting as well.

“i’m guessing it’s not you,” he asks, gesturing towards the storm, and mianite shakes his head.

“i wouldn’t be so reckless,” mianite says, and dianite rolls his eyes. “i _wouldn’t_. not near the isles, it could threaten the heroes, their homes, the temples they built for us. if a storm ruined those? we’d be trapped out of the realm. we’d have no connection, except through the heroes. and there’s no guarantee those connections are strong enough.”

his gaze goes to karl, who looks away. dianite looks to tom, who simply cracks his neck and grins. and dianite smiles back, and turns to dec again‒ but not before, he notes, the god’s gaze flickers, near imperceptibly, towards _him._ jordan swallows with a tight lipped smile and tries not to think about the empty space between the brothers.

“so then what is it?” karl asks, flinching at the sound of the rolling thunder.

dec sighs in a way that makes jordan shudder and his mouth go dry. “i think we already know.”

the clouds seem to darken. the waves crash closer on the shore, and in the corner of his vision, his beacon light flickers from purple to grey, and it does not change back.

* * *

jordan only likes the storms when he is not in them.

they take small boats to the tree of life, again, and dec is insistent jordan says near the water.

“i don’t trust it,” he says. “i trust _you_ , but i don’t trust that it won’t take you.”

and jordan understands, but.

he _hates_ sailing in storms, and he especially hates not being in charge of the oars in them. every wave that dec fights against makes jordan’s stomach churn, every crash of thunder makes his heart jump. he almost wants to take control of the damn boat himself, but declan is so focused that jordan just grips the sides and tries to swallow his heart even when it keeps jumping to his throat. and every time lightning flashes on the horizon, his mind goes to another time, another place.

 _he is young. barely past his 21st, and sailing alone. captain of the ship because there’s no one else to head it. and he’s fine with that. he’s better alone_.

water crashes into the boat and soaks him to the bone. declan sputters, spits out seawater, and pushes on. another flash.

_he doesn’t stop anymore, not as often. the tree is gone, his friends are gone. and all he has is himself, the sea, and the stars, and a little string of magic he follows._

they reach the base of the waterfall, and declan helps him stand. offers him his trident. he pushes through the water with as much ease as ever, landing safely at the top, and reaches out a hand to dec. mianite reaches to karl. dianite reaches for tom. they all delve deeper into the tree, taking shelter beneath it’s roof in the small cave. dianite sparks a small fire in the long-abandoned pit, and dec begins to draw in the ash, mumbling to himself. jordan takes a spot near the entrance, and watches the water crash into itself in anger. another flash, and this one is paired so closely with the thunder it throws him deeper into his mind than the others ever had.

 _the storm comes out of nowhere_.

_really, it does. jordan has learned to read the skies for what they will tell him. he knows the tell tale signs of an oncoming tempest, knows the tug in his gut and trusts it. the waters almost always work with him, no matter what, and he knows the crackle of electricity up his arm when lightning’s on it’s way._

_the typhoon hits from one side and it throws him completely off course, because he had not felt a thing to tell him of it’s approach. it slams against the ship like a wall, cracks the hull, shatters the mast in one go, and the ship is not a large thing, but it is strong enough, and jordan knows this is no ordinary storm. lightning strikes the horizon, and soon enough, the ship itself, and jordan is no stranger to fire, but it spreads too quickly, too strong. for once, he cannot find his footing, stumbling, unbalanced, and though he grabs for purchase on the rails and at the wheel, the smoke blows into his eyes, and he is thrown beneath the unrelenting waves._

_but they, at least, are calm beneath the surface. and jordan knows he’s at the ocean’s whims, and only hopes for a quick reprise._

_until something takes a hold of his mouth and forces it open and he struggles. there is something in the water with him, something is trying to force him to‒_

_he kicks at nothingness until his vision starts to go dark. by the time the grip releases, there is nothing he can do, and all he hears as he blacks out is a voice in his ear, crooning softly, **“come home, little hero.”**_

except this time, it doesn’t end there, and when he opens his eyes, he is at the memorial of jerry’s tree, the one the wizards built, and everything is in dark smoke but nothing seems to be burning. and before him, from the smoke, begins to form a figure, familiar and haunting, and stronger with every second.

_and jordan stumbles back._

_“it was you,” he whispers, horrified. “you brought me here.”_

_**“i gave her to you, little one,”** the darkness laughs. **“and you will watch me take her away.”**_

thunder crashes, and the darkness keeps laughing, and the wood beneath his feet splinters, and cracks, and falls to pieces. and he does not slip‒ the darkness does not let him‒ but he sees, so far below, a pinprick of purple amidst the ever-consuming shadow, and she is calling his name.

_“jordan- jordan- **jordan-”**_

“jordan!”

he jolts awake. they’re watching him close, worry etched in their features, and dianite and dec have a hand on each of his shoulders, questions on their tongues, and he swallows the phantom taste of seawater and bile and looks towards the growing storm.

“i know what it’s going after.”

* * *

the void is open to them still, cold and uninviting.

the end is still a comfort, but the void is something else. the gods look so unsure beside them at the edge, this time, and dianite grasps tom’s shoulder (and brushes his hand against jordan’s briefly, so briefly, and he only notices because of the shudder it sends up his spine). dec stands to the side, biting his tongue, and jordan feels so fucking terrible.

“are you sure you can’t come with us?”

declan’s smile is tight lipped, and jordan knows what it looks like when you’re trying your hardest not to cry. “i really shouldn’t.”

“what would it do, if you did?”

“jordan, you can’t just‒”

“you’d be _alone_ here.”

“it wouldn’t be the first time, jordan,” and now he wipes away the tears, sniffing. “i was alone for a very long time, and i will continue to be.”

“that’s bullshit,” jordan whispers. “it’s _bullshit_ , and you know it.”

“there’s a priest in every world, jordan, and we’re tied to our worlds. that’s how it _works_.”

“would you leave _me_ alone?”

it’s not a fair question, jordan knows, and he also knows it makes dec look at him again, _really_ look at him. and jordan never fully said what had happened, never fully told the priest what dianite had done, but dec’s smart enough to make an inference, and it makes him press the heels of his hands to eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths. and jordan wouldn’t think twice about this before, never had and never did, and he remembers, so suddenly, ruxomar’s copy of declan and it makes his chest ache. jordan has a reason to hold on and mean it, and he doesn’t want to let go.

“please don’t leave me alone.”

declan steps forward and crushes jordan against him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “i’m so sorry,” he says. “i’m so, so sorry. you didn’t deserve that.”

“he didn’t know better,” jordan defends weakly, and grasps at the back of dec’s shirt like a lifeline. “he didn’t realize he could do it alone.”

“jordan, my lad,” the priest says. “they never do.”

when he pulls away, jordan reluctantly loosens his grip and tries not to break into his own round of tears, every part of him threatening to crack and shatter again at the thought of leaving dec here to _disappear_.

“priest,” mianite speaks up. “i think... i think you misunderstand. you’re not of the _land_. you aren’t tied to the world. you’re tied to _us_.”

jordan’s breath hitches, slightly. behind him, he hears tom gasp too.

“if we go,” dianite adds, “then you can _come_. your subconscious follows, your memories intact. i don’t know if your body will remain the same, but‒”

“i can live with that,” dec says. “i can live through that, if i can stay with my boys. tom, we should probably‒ talk. at some point. there’s a lot i have to say.”

“we’ll have time,” tom laughs, but jordan can hear the strain in his voice, the weight behind his words. “when it’s finished. when we’ve won.”

“of course.”

“...bye, dad,” tom says, and declan stops breathing for a moment, while tom steps off the edge.

the others follow quickly, but jordan hesitates, stopped in his tracks by the echo of the infinite _nothingness_ beneath him, and the remembrance of the dreamstate it’d wrapped him in, the way the darkness had coddled and cradled him so gently in that false space, that mockery of a mirror image, the warp of a shadow. every cold touch, every piece of levitating obsidian, every glance, every strike, every word. it used to be something he looked forward to, that momentary reprieve, that dream.

now he just feels sick.

his wings shudder in anticipation, and his blood _sings_ to be free, far, far below. he’s starting to think that giving him part of the dragon had taken more than they’d told him, because from the moment he stepped into the end something in him had come alert, awake, alive, _alive_. what is he, he wonders. _what is he._

“captain,” declan tells him, and he can’t bear to turn around. “good luck.”

jordan steps down into nothingness.

* * *

the void is choking, pulling, strangling, tugging, _screaming, deafening, it hurts it hurts it **hurts.**_

his eyes are wide open, and for once, he can _see_ , everything, so far beyond and inbetween and he wonders, for a moment, if this is what it’s _really like_. it is unspeakably beautiful, blindingly bright in moments, shining with the lights of a thousand universes,

and in an instant, the void swallows it whole.

from the void rises a shadow that curls their fingers around jordan’s face and dig in tight to his skin.

 _ **stay awake, my c̴̼̫͌ḧ̵̺́a̶̿͜m̸̝̻͝p̴̩̈́̈i̶̤͝ͅo̴̧̹̕ń̵͔̜̍,**_ the darkness says. _**you deserve no reprise here. see what the void holds for you? see what you go through when your god has abandoned you, captain?**_

jordan can’t hear his own voice, but the way his throat feels tells him he’s been screaming. he curls into himself. he screws his eyes shut and tries to pretend he is asleep, he can be paused, even when he knows it isn’t true. with any luck, the way will not take too long. he can only hope.

_**oh, you will be there soon enough, don’t fret. far faster a trip than it ever has been, i’ve made sure of that. the void hungered for you in any form, and it chose to make a deal with me, just to hold you again. it likes you, captain, and it likes you more after the end blood was twisted into your veins.** _

jordan flinches back at the confirmation, but the darkness just grips him tighter, and he feels a sob ripped from him, and they laugh, cold and heartless.

_**and i want you to remember this pain, captain, and i want you to keep it in mind when you get to our realm, and know that i am waiting for you with open arms, and i will take you in, and i will keep you safe. i can teach you everything, little captain. i can teach you to be as strong as your gods.** _

the void burns, and digs, and takes its teeth and _bites,_ and jordan feels the blood begin to pour from each mark.

_**my boy, i could teach you to be stronger than the gods.** _

“don’t call me that,” he chokes out, even as the void swarms to gag him and steal his voice. “you do not get to call me that.”

the darkness laughs at his misfortune and finally lets him go, falling back and away into the rest of the nothingness, and the void wraps itself tighter around him, sinking it’s claws into every part of him it can find and reach and jordan curls in on himself, knowing he can’t die, knowing he has to know this, knowing he has not been abandoned, he _hasn’t_ , but she just can’t reach him yet‒

 _captain,_ someone suddenly murmurs in his ear, and there’s a tug against his chest, and the void retracts and retreats in sudden, sharp compliance. _i’m sorry i couldn’t reach you further. i hope you haven’t been too hurt in my negligence._

“dianite,” jordan sobs in quiet relief. “no, you’re‒ right on time. i’m fine. i’m okay.”

 _liar,_ the god whispers. _with any luck, your goddess can heal you when we land._

his goddess.

imagine that.

* * *

his magic bursts to life just before he lands, and his heart begins to _race_ , and before the void even opens, his wings unfurl behind him.

the light below them is small, but it is enough, and the others are revealed beside him, awake and prepared, and the gods catch their champions when jordan catches himself, and then, the end shows itself below them. for a heartstopping second, jordan thinks they’ve just gone in a loop, that it was a trick, that they’re stuck‒

and then when the void drips away from his vision, he sees broken swords at the edge of the island, some shattered at the handles, the blue of the diamond not as bright as it had been years ago, and with a sharp, sudden memory, he lets out a hysterical laugh.

and the temple of ianite comes into view, and jordan’s entire being sparks up like a livewire.

alive, alive, alive, and _home_.

the feeling almost overwhelms him, makes him cry on impact, because that one strand he thought was fading brightens and becomes _neon_ within him, the only thing he knows, the strongest thing in the world‒ ender pearl shards and blaze powder trails, lavender and lilac petals growing amongst the chorus fruits, ships of all shapes and sizes, those in water, those of air, arrow strikes on targets, the pull of the drawstring, the creak of the wood. the beat of dragon wings against the air‒ the first beast’s, or his own, he doesn’t know.

but through it all, he finds that one thing he’s held so near and dear to him thriving again, clicking into place, and bringing him a strength he didn’t know he could ever have. internally, the balance of the world settles, of _his realm_ settles, and he _**roars**_ , primal and loud, an announcement, and an invitation.

 _i am here_ , he calls. _come fucking get me._

* * *

they kept their gear for once.

jordan stumbles over his own feet when he lands, jittery and electric with his magic, with _her_ magic, with everything he knows and understands and has always known and has always understood, darkness be damned if he forced him here, jordan was already _on his way_.

the path opens up before them. tom draws his cutlasses from their sheathes, and dianite sticks close to his side‒ karl swings his hammer around and tightens it in his grip, and mianite stands just behind him. they both hesitate before they step forward, and jordan takes a breath as his hands twitch, empty.

which one, he wonders. not that it’ll matter. the newest part of his heart and mind and soul does not care, it wants to destroy. it wants to _protect_ , and he takes a breath to smooth his hair down, and tighten the tie holding it back, and pulls his bow from a chest nearby.

tom mumbles something about _illegal_ , and jordan snorts. the tension breaks, just a little, and before them, an archway shimmers. dianite’s gaze hardens.

“there’s something beyond the darkness there,” he says. “i think‒ i think it’s the other versions of us. i think it’s the other versions of _you_.”

“it has to be,” mianite agrees. “i can tell by their energies, by the quintessence‒” (and at that jordan twitches, he doesn’t like the sound of that word, not from mianite, even just a young version) “‒that’s _us_ , in there. and there are auras that match _very closely_ to those of champions.”

there is a cloud above them, circling, circling. inside, his newfound power _screams_ to protect, and to fight. jordan rolls his neck.

they step forward together, the three of them, and the gods follow close behind.

* * *

the first thing they see are the three cages‒ thick, thorned, black metal, marked by dancing colored magic, like electric strikes across each gap. in front of each cage, there are figures kneeling, arms bound behind their backs, and tom sees it first.

“ _tucker?”_ he gasps‒ “sonja, wag‒” and sure enough.

sure fucking enough, jordan thinks, because in front of each cage, those figures are familiar now, and faces he hasn’t seen in five years looks up at them, eyes wide in shock, gagged with fabric. tucker is angry and desperate, and sonja looks panicked, but infuriated. besides them are some people jordan _doesn’t_ recognize, and jordan remembers the alternates are meant to be here, suddenly, to make sure things go _right_.

and that explains the figures in front of the other two cages, doesn’t it?

mot, he recognizes. there’s anger in his eyes, in his form, but his face reads calm, and he’s watching them carefully, brow furrowed. and in front of the one in the middle‒

well, jordan thinks to himself. that’s a sight to see, isn’t it, and now he understands why that ianite had confused them so easily.

spark seems the most composed. not angry or afraid, or confused in the slightest, eyes hidden neatly behind his sunglasses, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t get off easily, jordan’s sure‒ he has blood dripping down from his nose, which is crooked and bruised, and there are sharp lines cut into his jacket, tears and stains on his shirt, and, well, jordan knows exactly what spark did, because it’s what he would do, for her.

he fought like hell for her.

wag, and a couple of the others, are off in little individual cages to the sides, bound as well, inside. and jordan pays attention to the _insides,_ now, desperate to see if he’s right.

mianite‒ and _dec_ , he recognizes with a jolt‒ are trapped in the cage just behind tucker and sonja. two dianites are in the cage behind mot, and behind spark‒

jordan’s wings twitch restlessly behind him as he meets her eyes.

martha is beside her too, out of place and shaken, eyes only on her father bound in front of her just out of reach. the hair on the back of jordan’s neck prickles slightly as tom and karl step up beside him, karl to his left, tom on his right, and he recognizes the feeling of the younger gods inciting strength into their champions, and the world tilts on it’s edge as the three of them step forward together into the area.

 _“ **welcome, heroes**_ ,” the darkness croons, coming into shape in the center of it all. beneath them, the floor ignites in color, magic bleeding through and lighting them from beneath. “ _ **welcome home.**_ ”

not a single one of them seems moves a muscle, makes a sound, except for steady breath and steady heartbeats. this is not the first time they have faced a threat together and it will not be the last.

(jordan still remembers fenrir, so far ago, it feels. remembers their dive beneath the ruins, under hermod’s ship‒ remembers mianite’s warning from before. not to go into the ocean, and how it had unsettled him. jordan is a captain. a sailor. a pirate. the ocean is a part of him, and how is he meant to avoid it. remembers how it led to the gods. remembers how it led to their first _real_ fight together, so far below, with the ghost of something so dangerous.

jordan is still wearing the chestplate.)

“ _ **before we begin,”**_ they say, and jordan can hear the smile in their voice, sickeningly sweet and poison to his ear. he remembers in sequence the cold fingers against his skin, the smoke in his lungs, the dryness of his throat, the sinking feeling of an empty stomach. his vision has not been the same since it all, and all he knows is that the longer this fight lasts, the more his eyesight will dim, and go. “ _ **i’ve given you my offer, captain. it’s time for you to choose.”**_

his heart beats in his ears. he relives the bite and tear of the void over and over in _seconds_ for what feels like forever, and tightens his grip on his bow, feeling the crack of the wood, aged, but polished. polished‒ rekindled‒ she’s taken care of _his bow_. in the cage, with her, he sees a mirage of a lady he watched die, hovering above her daughter, watching him so sweetly, waiting on his choice. and in his heart, at his shoulder, just between his wings, he feels the lady _ripped from him_ , her thread braiding into the others nice and tight, and twisting into every fiber of who he is‒ among the purple is that single, burning red, and jordan‒

jordan laughs.

jordan _laughs_ , sharp and bitter and full, laughs until he cries, and tries not to blink, because the moment he does he fears he will not have the chance to see again. “you still think,” he says, “after all of this, after everything you’ve done, i’ll _come to you_?”

 _ **“i had hoped,”**_ they snap, _**“you would have come to your senses. i brought you here, captain, you were mine since the beginning. i will be a part of you until the day you die.”**_

“you did not _bring_ me here,” he bites back in return, and feels poison in his teeth, heat in his skin, bristling across him like a blanket of rolling electricity. “you dragged me to the depths of the ocean, and you tried to keep me below the waves, to drive me away from myself and from her. you _forced_ me here, if anything, and for _that_ , i’ll thank you. i will thank you for getting me here faster, i will _thank_ you for pulling me beneath it all, and i will fucking thank you for blinding me to the choices they offered me.”

he hears the spark of metal on metal, of fire crackling, of thunder rumbling far below and high above. the darkness is strong, curling up towards their legs, and jordan knows it will, at the very least, reach him before the others, and for once, he does not shake.

“but you forgot she was hidden in darkness when i found her,” he whispers. “i did not need my sight to know my way.”

 _ **“you little‒”**_ the darkness starts, and jordan steps forward into the encroaching shadows, and it stops their words in their mouth.

“call me what you like,” jordan hisses. “call me little, call me nothing, call me useless, but know this‒ i have killed the creator of gods before.”

and he pulls his bowstring back, familiar and strong, and his hands do not shake, his stance does not waver, even when the world seems to rock like a boat in a storm‒ and behind him, his brothers’ weapons spark to life, the light within them each blinking into existence like stars after sunset, and it grows, and it _grows_. upon the string, against his knuckle and the bow, an arrow is drawn from magic, notched and prepared, purple and bright, and in the cage, both versions of her are reaching out with a smile, and from behind, she is holding him tight.

and jordan bears his teeth in a mockery of a grin, and stares the darkness in it’s empty eyes.

“ _and you will witness me do it again.”_

the boys charge forward, and jordan feels order and chaos _together_ , for once, and it fills him, and all versions of her, with joy, and with power. his wings lift him upwards, and the shadows fall away from his feet, unable to reach him from way high up.

and he lets the arrow fly.

* * *

the fight is both the shortest and longest thing he’s ever felt in his life. it drags on with every hit, every strike. karl’s hammer rocks the earth and shakes the end below them, and the darkness twists around the storms it brings, the blows of thunder that deafens the air. tom’s swords spark with every hit, curling fire around his wrists, ashes and cinders exploding outwards with every blow. it cuts through and leaves open wounds, gaping holes, splintering light like cracked glass reflections.

champions of light‒ perhaps not pure of heart, but still cleansed, and bright, and shining.

jordan does not have that right, but still, he does his part.

he can feel that his vision is going, quicker and quicker, drowning in the shadows that surround him, covered in the void that the end sits tucked away in, but his aim is consistent through everything. they can say what they want, he thinks, but he has lived his whole life through blind faith, and the blur of fading sight means nothing to him now, when his hand is guided, and his impulse drives him through.

he knows. he knows, and he is _home_ , now, and stronger for it, and everything that happened is a part of him, a reminder in his blood and on his skin and carrying him in the air, a reminder in his magic and his soul and in his heart with every twist of godly magic, and he notes, every once in a while, that one of the arrows gifted to him is more red than purple. there is nothing more to say, is there, because he has been through hell, and he _knows_ it, and he isn’t quite there yet. dragon’s breath sits in his lungs and his tongue is cut easily on his teeth, a thrum of _needwantprotect_ echoing in his being, and he will get there when he gets there.

for now he fights. for now he dodges tendrils of smoke, pulling further away from the arena, further away from the circle, until the darkness, momentarily, forgets he is there. when they look away, he dives, and touches down silently beside the cage‒ beside spark, who looks up towards him, just as calm as before, if not a touch confused. and jordan kneels, and takes a breath, and doesn’t look at her yet.

 _miss,_ he asks the spirit that has grown stronger with every arrow he’s landed, every shot he’s struck, and she hums, curling closer in the form of a fox that appeared upon his shoulder not too long ago. _the trident?_

 _attuned to you, captain_ , she tells him, and hops off to the ground. she noticeably does not call him hers and although it pangs at his heart briefly, he understands. _good luck, and be careful. you say you’ve killed one before, but you did not reap the spoils, it seems_.

 _i did,_ he replies, and lets his trident materialize in his hand. _it just wasn’t enough to overwhelm me, and really, all it did was. well._

 _balance you out,_ she laughs, a little sadly. _a perfect mix of light and dark. captain, your heart holds little room for much more._

 _i’ll burn that bridge as i cross it,_ he tells her.

“my lady,” he says aloud to the goddess in the cage behind him. “i’m sorry if this goes wrong.”

tom and karl strike forward, together, as one, and jordan sprints directly from behind.

and when chaos and order make a mark, balance pierces the darkness through the center, and entirely through.

* * *

he never asked tom what the feeling of accepting a god’s quintessence had been like, but now, he never has to, he supposes.

tom had not seemed like he was in pain. it had seemed instantaneous, immediate‒ he’d been fine, and then he’d been, you know. a secondary god, a mock up of the one he’d killed, the next in line, to fill the position. jordan knows that power is still in him (drained, maybe, with dianite’s revival in their world, but _still there_ ), and he wonders if tom knows that it’s there.

it strikes him down where he stands, and it takes everything in him not to release the trident. light is blossoming within them, and the darkness turns their head around to face him, reaching out to take his face in their palms and twisting deep into his skin. smoke and shadow curls down the shaft of his weapon and begins to flow over his fists, and he grits his fangs and _stares_ them down.

 _ **we could’ve been something great, little hero,**_ they hiss to him, slowly weakening with each moment as he gains a power he doesn’t want. _**and now you’ll become it on your own. is this what you wanted, captain? to become what you hated most?**_

 _who said_ , he bites back, _i will keep what you give?_

there is nothing but the silence of the world, now, even when he can see the others struggling against whatever barrier he’s made. the cages are shattered, the bonds are broken. the gods, and champions, and others are free, standing at the edge, begging with words that he can’t hear, screaming his name over the waves and so desperately, desperately trying to be heard. all except for two champions of light. all except for tom, and karl, who make their way towards the spirit of the second one he’d known.

he feels her eyes on him, and he grins a little wider up at the darkness.

 _our time with angrec’s blessing is long past_ , he tells them. _too much light will overwhelm us. we are not made to be it’s vessels. that’s not what humans are for._

no god is perfect, jordan knows that. tom and karl reach out and take the spirit’s hands, and only _then_ does the darkness recognizes their fate.

 _ **bold move, captain,**_ they laugh, and the last of it that will always survive begins to splinter into the voids. _**clever, and bold. you really are something else‒ and the only one i will ever willingly admit my defeat to. we are not done here, do not mistake this as the end. but for now, my hero? for now, i take my leave.**_

they begin to disappear, and the barrier cracks and dissolves. jordan kneels in the center of it all, swirling in dark ichor and shadow and magic he does not control. and then he stands, and turns towards the second ianite, the one long since gone, and holds out his hand.

“it’s time to come down,” he whispers, and, with reverence and tears, she takes it in her own.

gods are made from light, and darkness, and _quintessence,_ the ideals of what they are, of what they uphold. they grow into their own, and luckily, she had already _known_ herself. and jordan matches his brothers’ light with the darkness he has taken, and gives a little bit of what she’d given to him back.

ruxomar’s ianite lands in front of him, beside her husband, tears shining in her eyes‒ and besides _her_ , is the ianite from the isles, full formed again, shaking with her regained magic. and behind them both, approaching quickly, is _His Lady_ , his everything, and she is bright and effervescent with barely constrained joy, and grief, and she is _here_.

“you saved me,” they all say together, purposeful or not. “ _thank you_.”

jordan smiles, bright, and manic, and _real_.

and then, overwhelmed, he collapses.

* * *

the winds up here ruffle his curls.

jerry’s grave is well kept, lavender and lilac blooming across the little garden, over the grass and around the headstones. he takes a long, deep breath, and just lets himself think in the quiet, gentle peace of his house, the rustle of the leaves above mixing with the crashing of the waves below.

“you need a haircut,” ianite says, and he opens his eyes and looks to her, smiling.

she has changed since he last saw her‒ of course she has, but for the better. her hair floats like silk in water when she walks, and her dress has been swapped out for an elegant skirt and pant combination, for easy movement. her arms are adorned in bracers, her tiara is plated armor. she has changed in a way that reflects a coming or a past war, and he feels a pain that he missed being able to be around to fight for, and with her.

she must notice, and she reaches out a hand to help him up. “don’t worry,” she says. “there will be time.”

he stands and stretches his wings out, yawning comfortably, content and relaxed.

the threads of gods are still bound and braided, and he knows at this moment the younger dianite is at the base of his tree, in his vault, sorting through weaponry and deciding what to bless‒ the younger ianite is with him, bickering gently, and ruxomar’s ianite is safe in ianarea with her husband and daughter and grandson.

and speaking of andor.

jordan had talked to him, briefly, and apologized. apologized for not paying attention. apologized for not coming sooner. apologized for not standing up for him in the first place. and andor, gentle and strong in ways jordan had not known until so recently, had hugged him tight and said:

“i can’t change what was done to me, and i can’t change what i have lost, and i can’t change what i was left with. all i can do, and all i _have_ done, is taken what i have, and worked with it to become stronger.”

as the world shifts, jordan finds he understands that, and can learn how to work towards that as time goes on.

“come on,” ianite says. “there’s someone waiting for you downstairs.”

jordan blinks, and tilts his head towards the edge of the platform. she laughs, and presses a kiss to the top of his head, gesturing with one hand in a wave towards the open air.

“whatever makes you happy, my boy.”

he preens, and launches himself off, catching the breeze and gliding gently downwards, his dragon, his heart, satisfied and calmed for the moment, it’s hoard and nest safe in the aftermath, everything and everyone he cares for protected.

and his dreams are not unhaunted. he still spends days avoiding shadow, still keeps torches and lanterns burning as often as he can. the echoes of voices still follow him at night when the dark is unavoidable, phantom pains and still bright scars curling around his being. and that’s okay, he tells himself. his normal vision is fading, and weak, but that’s okay. he’s learned to live blindly, and he knows he can survive when it comes to down to it.

declan is relaxing on the connecting bridge, watching the waves off of the shore beside them, and jordan lands safely at his side.

“i think,” the priest says, “we should talk about your immortality.”

“probably,” jordan laughs. “where should we start?”

“how about over a cup of tea?” dec asks, and holds out a hand.

and jordan thinks.

it has been two months, perhaps. his internal clock is out of sync, and has been for some time, but from what he can tell, about two months. that prison is not gone from his mind, his body, and is not gone from who he is and who he will become. but for now he is _home_ , and he is with the people that care about him, that have always cared for him, that always will. he has changed too. they all have.

he smiles, and he breathes, his connection to his gods thrumming in his heart like a steady, beating drum.

jordan steps forward.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://transvav.tumblr.com)  
> if you're here from my usual rt hyperfixation i'm so sorry but like. you focus on what you gotta focus on, wheee!


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